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Beside the Sea

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Continuing in the books-in-translation theme, but moving to the other side of the Channel, step forward Beside the Sea by Veronique Olmi. Yet again, imagine the accents. This novel, published as Bord de Mer in 2001, has been translated by Adriana Hunter and is one of the first books from new publishing house Peirene Press.

Let’s talk about Peirene first, for a moment, actually. They translate and publish contemporary European novels, giving those of us with zero language skills a chance to experience the best of continental literature (n.b. for American readers, British people rather oddly refer to ‘Europe’ as though we weren’t part of it. That’s the ego of an island, that is). Best of all, for me – they don’t publish anything over 200pp. Oh, Peirene, how I do love thee! It is not just yours truly who likes his books short and sweet. Their line is: bored watching films? Read a two-hour book instead. (Oh, and see their rather witty blog too).

But Beside the Sea, though short, is not sweet. That is to say, it’s a pretty devastating read. From the beautiful cover, lovely thick pages, and generally pretty luxurious feel to the physical book, I was expecting the novel inside to be equally elegant. The written version of Audrey Tautou or Marion Cotillard, wearing a beret, sipping from a champagne flute and eating vol-au-vents. That sort of thing. So when the protagonist said that she ‘didn’t give a stuff’ on one of the first pages, I was a little taken aback. So she’s not elegant; this is not an elegant book. Ok.

Instead, we have a mother taking her young boys, Stan and Kevin, away to a grotty hotel by the sea. It’s not lived up to her expectations, but she is determined that they will enjoy their stay – even with hardly any money, and rain, and fears continually crowding into her mind. Throughout all the activities, her main worry is that she isn’t good enough as a mother, and that her children will outgrow her and leave her behind. She loves Stan and Kevin desperately, and tries to show this affection, but never feels that she is getting it quite right: Maybe the only real cuddle is in your tummy, when you’ve still got the baby in your tummy, I mean. No one to tell you what to do, to say you’re pampering it too much or not enough or not at the right time. You mustn’t wake a baby. You mustn’t ruin his appetite. You mustn’t hurt his head. You’re just with him. That’s all. You’re with him.
For their parts, Kevin and Stan try to cope well with the situation, but everything is a little fraught, detached, anxious. Stan takes refuge in words…
Are they good? I asked Stan. He didn’t answer. He’s gone off somewhere, he’s good at that, Stan, slipping his moorings – oh, he’s mine alright. The teacher lends him books and it’s the same when he reads: he leaves us. Sometimes I think he carries on reading his books when he’s given them back, he still thinks about them, he can read them even without the words, he’s really very good at being somewhere else.I was initially thrown by the tone of the novel, being so different from what I expected – and I did worry that it would be like so many other novels, in a ‘real’ voice which is so jarring and unsatisfying. But Olmi is much cleverer than that – though the reader might think at the start that this is an average mother, it is soon obvious that she is not. Unreliable narrators always make for interesting reading, and this one gives away only so much – and how much of that is true or reasonable is difficult to gauge…

Olmi manages to build tension without explaining much – the novel is haunting and continually advancing towards an unknown climax. The writing also gets better and better as the novel progresses – I loved the section where they visited the fair:

I’m taking you to the fair, I said. My voice was wrong, I didn’t want to say it like that, in a whisper, I’d like to have said it all loud and happy, the kids didn’t react. I took a deep breath and tried to shout, I’m taking you to the fair! but it came out faded and tired… the boys didn’t move. Mind you, I’d have sworn they’d have followed me to the ends of the earth, but I realised the three of us didn’t need to talk to each other any more. We could do things. Anything. The weirdest, craziest things. But without talking. We followed each other instinctively. We were sure of ourselves, like animals who never question, who just know what you should do and what you shouldn’t.But far and away the best writing comes in the final ten pages. The climax has arrived and, though perhaps the reader has predicted it, that doesn’t make its arrival any less affective. Like Susan Hill’s The Beacon, it’s one of those gasp-out-loud-stare-at-for-five-minutes final pages, final lines.

Obviously I’m not a mother, and I think being a parent might make Beside the Sea even more arresting – but, though it was not the novel I expected when I turned the first page, this is a very good portrayal of quiet desperation and irrationality in a dark, dismal, but real world which never crosses the line into the gratuitously macabre or seedy. Peirenne Press are obviously a publishing house to keep an eye on…

the best laid plans…

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I got halfway through writing about Beside the Sea by Veronique Olmi, and now my eyes are too bleary to continue… frailty thy name is apparently Simon.


Instead, I shall wish you a happy St. David’s Day (as it draws to a close) and, in honour of the occasion, ask you to name your favourite book by a Welsh author…

Mine is the wonderful autobiography Under Storm’s Wing by Helen Thomas, containing As It Was and World Without End, about her life with the poet Edward Thomas. It’s over there ——-> in the 50 Books, and is one of the most moving books I’ve ever read, the last paragraph has stayed with me ever since I read it.

Over to you… if in doubt, I’ll accept anyone with the surname ‘Thomas’, ‘Jones’, or ‘Llangochwellyn’.

The Blue Fox

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My weekend of reading those short books in translation is going apace, with two and a bit down. I also read possibly my first book by an author with only one name, since I’ve never read anything by Cher… oh, wait, no, there’s Saki too. Anyway. It’s definitely the first Icelandic book I’ve read, The Blue Fox by Sjon. Imagine the accent on the ‘o’, if you will – apparently this penname means ‘sight’.

I’d heard about the novel (novella?) in a few places – first at dovegreyreader, methinks, then later when Scott Pack chose it as his first Blogger’s Book of the Month – and Claire at Paperback Reader has also written about it – there you go, three reviews to read before I even get past a weak Cher joke. And they all liked it – you can add me to that pile.

Published in Icelandic in 2004, Victoria Cribb’s translation was published by Telegram Books in 2008. I always make sure to credit translators, because it is one of the jobs which impresses me the most, being about as far away as possible from own (incredibly limited) skill set. And, though I cannot compare Cribb’s translation with Sjon’s original, I’m pretty certain that the atmosphere of the book has been carried across.

The Blue Fox takes place in January 1883, and the first section follows the priest Baldur Skuggason as he is on the trail of the elusive blue fox. Each page has a paragraph or two of text on it, slowing down the reading process and giving the words the form, as well as the language, of poetry. Not that it is overly full of imagery or anything like that – rather, the language is sparse and deceptively simple. And there is a subtle humour throughout. One page reads simply: ‘The night was cold and of the longer variety.’ We follow the slow and careful hunt, and even if (like me) you’re willing the fox to escape, this is still beautiful writing. Completely unlike anything I’ve read before.

Just as the trigger is pulled on the gun, we jump back a few days, to the world of Fridrik B. Fridiksson and his charge Abba, who has Down’s Syndrome. Apparently it was rare, in the mid-19th century in Iceland at least, for babies with Down’s Syndrome to be left alive. No witnesses were needed; before the child could utter its first wail, the midwife would close its nose and mouth, thereby returning its breath to the great cauldron of souls from which all mankind is served.Once more the structure is strange, as it’s going backgrounds. We meet characters before we know their histories; sometimes we are told they are dead before they even appear. It all lends a disorientating feeling, but fairy-tale-like rather than sinister. Perhaps it is the mediation of translation, or perhaps it is in Sjon’s writing, but The Blue Fox feels almost mystical, as though it is read through a glass darkly.

I’ll be honest – I wasn’t *as* bowled over by the novella as Scott Pack was, but I am very glad that I’ve read it. The sections of the hunt, especially – which continue at the end of the book, increasingly and beautifully surreal – were haunting and mesmeric and so different from anything else I’ve read. For a taste of Icelandic literature, and a glimpse of a wholly different world and time, I suggest you pick up The Blue Fox – you’re unlikely to read anything else similar this year.

Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany

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1.) The books – I’m cheating, as there are four this weekend… and they’re all short (539 pages between the four of them!), and they’re all in translation. That wasn’t deliberate, but somehow it happened – and so I thought I’d collect them altogether. Two from the library (The Blue Fox by Sjon, from the Icelandic; Identity by Milan Kundera, from the French) and two review copies (Hector and the Search for Happiness by Francois Lelord and Beside the Sea by Veronique Olmi, both from the French). Look out for them on Stuck-in-a-Book over the following weeks, they look like they’ll cover quite a range of styles and moods, but all sounds interesting… Since there are four, I don’t think I have space to offer summaries or blurbs now, so we’ll wait til I’ve read them…

2.) The blog post – is the very innovative Cate at Bookshelf Project with her Book Oscars 2010. You only have three days left to vote, so click on that link and choose amongst the nominations in categories including Best Cover Design, Best Fiction Novel, Best Book-to-Film Adaptation… and maybe more. She also made this rather fab banner:

3.) The link – I’m cheating again, because it’s not really a link. I’m just copying and pasting from a recent email… it’s a hard life, being a blogger. Said email was from a man named Peter, who runs Flashlight Worthy Book Recommendations. Apparently he’s looking to expand his offerings of book club books. Take a look at what he has and if you have some ideas as to a list you could contribute, get in touch with him at info@flashlightworthy.com.

Jewish Book Week

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I haven’t been to many literary festivals, but next week I’ll be adding another one to the small tally – Jewish Book Week, taking place in London 27th February – 7th March. I’m not Jewish myself, but I find so much of Jewish cultural history fascinating. And, of course, we share a Testament.. The people behind JBW very kindly got in touch with me and asked if there were any talks I fancied attending, and suggested the one on vegetarianism – sadly I can’t make that, but I had a look at the wonderful variety of events (which you can see here) and put my name down for a couple…

So, on Wednesday I’ll be attending Save The Children, in which Ruth Barnett, Susan Soyinka, and Karen Pollock will be talking about the evacuation of children during World War Two. I thought it would tie in interestingly with Terence Frisby’s excellent memoir Kisses on a Postcard, which I wrote about a while ago.

And on Sunday, I’ll be at Celebrating Irene Nemirovsky. I loved the powerful and compassionate Suite Francaise (as you’ll see if you click here) and am looking forward to hearing more about her – an event at which her daughter will be speaking.

Do go and have a look at the list of events, and the blog Bagels and Books which they’ve set up, and maybe I’ll even see you at one of those events… I’ll be reporting back on them when I’ve been, of course – looking forward to it!

Miss Mole

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It is nice to have someone in my book group who has very similar reading tastes to me. It means I needn’t harp on about my choices all the time, I can sit back and let Miss Mole (1930) by EH Young be selected, without even having to suggest it myself. Thanks Ruth! This was my first EH Young (of the three or four which have found their way to my bookshelves) but it definitely won’t be my last. AND Miss Mole won the James Tait Black Award, which is generally a better guide for good books than any of the other major book awards.

Miss Mole is a fairly mischievous forty-something who seeks work as a housekeeper. She embarrasses her cousin Lilla, who is from the ‘better’ side of the family, into finding her a position with a nonconformist minister Robert Corder, his daughters Ethel and Ruth, and their cousin Wilfred. Miss Mole’s defence against the potential boredom of her life is concealing her lively and humorous character behind a facade of the dutiful, unintelligent housekeeper which is expected of her.

She could see herself clearly enough with other people’s eyes: she was drab, she was nearing, if she had not reached, middle-age, she bore the stamp of a woman who had always worked against the grain[…] Who would suspect her of a sense of fun and irony, of a passionate love for beauty and the power to drag it from its hidden places?
This is the sort of family-orientated novel which Richmal Crompton sometimes does better, and sometimes rather worse. Young never falls into the pitfalls to which Crompton is occasionally prone – preciousness or being ever so slightly saccharine. Miss Mole is a fairy-tale, but without sentimentality. That is not to say the novel is remotely cynical or disillusioned – but rather that there is nothing which would be more appropriate in a book called Tales For Disconcerted Infants. But it is definitely in the fairy-tale mold – Miss Mole deals with the various dilemmas and quandaries facing the members of the Corder family, who all grow to depend upon her. And she has a few problems of her own, which are gradually revealed, though the family around her remains oblivious.

They were all too young or too self-absorbed to understand that her life was as important to her as theirs to them and had the same possibilities of adventure and romance; that, with her, to accept the present as the pattern of the future would have been to die.
But it is as impossible to pity her as it is to envy her position, because she is so irrepressible. Though she teases everyone, especially her cousin Lilla (and all while pretending to be respectful, and subtle enough to evade retaliation) there is no malice in Miss Mole. There were a few bits which made me laugh out loud, and plenty which made me smile:
“This is a fine old city, Miss Mole,” he said, “full of historic associations, and we have one of the finest parish churches in the country – if you are interested in architecture,” he added, with a subtle suggestion that this was not likely.

Hannah longed to ask what effect her indifference would have on the building, but Mr. Corder did not wait for reassurance about its safety.

EH Young’s strength is in dialogue – when Miss Mole is wittily dissecting other people’s words, but in the guise of guileless innocence, Young crafts the exchanges so finely. The prose narrative is good, but sometimes drags a bit, and doesn’t have the liveliness which Miss Mole injects into the dialogue. Perhaps this is why EH Young is a very good, but not a great, novelist – however, when it comes to drawing characters, she is really rather brilliant. Miss Mole is a creation of whom Jane Austen would be proud, and I think I’ll remember her for some time.

As I said – my first EH Young, but not my last. Thank you, books, for being sturdy enough to last 80 years and allow me the enjoyment of all the wonderful novelists who are neglected by most of the publishing world today! EH Young is surely due a reprint from someone…

 

Through the Years…

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Ok, I’ll admit, I got halfway through a review of the latest book I read, and didn’t find the energy to finish it… so I thought I’d try a little thing ‘Through the Years’, which could be fun to try if you’ve been blogging for a little while.

I’ve done a ‘what was I reading on this date’ meme before a few times, but I thought I’d bring blogging into it as well.

I’m going to look back at the posts I’ve done for a certain date over the past few years. Obviously this will work better post-May, as I started blogging in April 2007, but (to get the ball rolling) here’s what February 22nd looked like in the past…

– in 2009, I was reading Making History by Brian Friel, and blogging about the idea of getting recommendations from other bloggers

– in 2008, I was reading Yes Man by Danny Wallace, and blogging about families of writers

– in 2007, I was reading The Philosophy of the Short Story by Brander Matthews

– in 2006, I was reading… nothing, it appears! Gosh, I only read one book in Feburary 2006, and that was a play by Aphra Behn.

– in 2005, I was reading The Collection by Harold Pinter

– in 2004, I was reading The Young Visiters [sic] by Daisy Ashford

– in 2003, I was reading David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

– in 2002, I was reading The Moody Man by John Milne

Have a go yourself!

White is for Witching

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You may remember that I was feeling all smug and public-service-using the other day, when I got White is for Witching out of the public library – my first public library book for about six years, I’d imagine. I *had* asked for it from Picador, but not heard from them for a few weeks, so off to the library I went… and, when I was halfway through the book, guess what came through the postbox? Thank you, Picador, I now own my very own copy. Sorry, library. But I did go and get another one out – Identity by Milan Kundera. Having decided not to read another Kundera for a while, I realised I was missing his writing, and that he’d written something nice and short…

Anyway. I was very impressed by The Icarus Girl – my first encounter with Helen Oyeyemi – back in August 2008. I was also a little sickened that she wrote it during her A Levels, got another novel out during her time studying at Cambridge, and now seems unstoppable. And then I read Eva’s lovely review of White is for Witching, which (a) was very enthusiastic, and (b) mentioned Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle as a point of comparison. Yes, the very same novel which is in my 50 Books You Must Read list. I couldn’t not read it, could I?

The novel follows Miranda, from her sixth-form to Cambridge – she has a twin brother [twinlit – check], has pica and thus eats chalk [quirky and original – check], and seems to be in tune with her dead ancestors and her very human house [weird houses – check]. All very Gothic and haunting. I’d love to explain more about the plot, and the characters, but I don’t think I can… despite all those ‘checks’, I was disappointed by White is for Witching. Mostly because I hadn’t got a clue what was going on.

I was a bit confused by the ending of The Icarus Girl, but I liked the ambiguity – the climax of Jessamy battling her double – but this seemed to seep through all of White is for Witching. Was this just me? Was it just because I was reading it while a bit tired, and later when I had a headache? Or did the novel give me a headache?

There are various narrators – Eliot, Miranda’s twin brother; Ore, her friend and sometime-lover at Cambridge; a third-person narrator; the house; maybe her dead mother? But they were never announced. I was usually halfway through a narrative chunk before I’d identified the person who was speaking. It didn’t help that I thought Eliot was a girl and Ore was a boy, when in fact it’s the other way round. What I did like was that narratives would blur into each other, connected over a word that they both use, for example:

‘I can only explain it in comparison to something mundane – my adjustment to Lily’s ghost was sort of like when you’re insanely thirsty, but for some reason you can’t get the cap on your water bottle to open properly so you tussle at it with your teeth and hands until you can get a trickle of water to come through. A little water at a time, and you’re trying to be less thirsty and more patient so that the water can be enough. The thing with having seen Lilly was just like that, a practical inner adjustment to meet a need. At least she is there, I’d thought, even if she is just a ghost and doesn’t speak, at least she is

there

was a bird on the windowsill later in the afternoon. I looked up from Thus Spake Zarathustra and saw it sitting motionless. [etc.]’

But there was a little too much structural experiment for my liking – I love experimental writing, but doing it with the way words are laid out on the page always seems, somehow, like the laziest method.

And there are all sorts of unexplained things – or, at least, things I didn’t find explained. The novel opens with Miranda disappearing completely, and tracks back to find out why – which is deliberately not resolved. But what was the bizarre stabbing incident? Why does she not look like her old photographs? Why does she think she is dead? What was that bit about someone being kept in a walk-in closet for years? SO CONFUSED HEAD EXPLODING EYES POPPING OUT OF MY HEAD. Ahem.

I haven’t read Oyeyemi’s second novel yet, The Opposite House, but I’d be interested to see the progression. For me, White is for Witching took all the elements I really liked in The Icarus Girl, and then went too far with them.

I really wanted to like this novel, and so I’m waiting to be convinced… did I just read it in the wrong frame of mind? Or has Oyeyemi got too experimental for her boots?

Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany

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I’m off for the weekend, to give a talk on Barbara Comyns to the Bidford History Society (argh! nervous!) and visit my brother in Bristol (not nervous…) so I’m typing out a couple of posts to appear whilst I’m away. First off, the Weekend Miscellany – which has a little bit extra this week. Don’t worry, we’ll still be looking at a book, a blog post, and a link – but before that…

UK Book Bloggers Meet-Up
I wrote about this quite a while ago, when it was in its very early stages of organisation – it’s now a little nearer being organised which, let’s face it, is as near as I’m likely to get, not being one of nature’s organised people. Just ask my family, in whom hope springs eternal.

I don’t want to put all the details up here, Just In Case (we don’t want the wrong sort of internet-lurker turning up!) but I have booked a venue. We’ll be meeting in the function room of a lovely, traditional English pub in London (which comes recommended by Kim) on Saturday May 8th at 5.30pm. To get involved, give me an email at simondavidthomas [at] yahoo.co.uk . I think everyone who got in touch before has had an email from me – let me know if I’ve missed you! The room dooes have a restriction of 35 – I shouldn’t think we’ll have more than that, but just in case, it’s first-come first-served… so get emailing!

1.) The book – Thought I’d mention something which came through the postbox this week – Croc Attack! by Assaf Gavron. Sounds like an edgier David Attenborough, doesn’t it, but no – the novel is about Eitan Enoch, known as Croc, and his survival of various terrorist attacks in Tel Aviv. He inadvertently becomes a national celebrity, but thus also becomes a target… To be honest, it sounds more violent than my usual choice of book, but is also apparently ‘blackly funny’ and might appeal to the more politically minded amongst you? In fact, let me know if you fancy reviewing it for this blog and (if you live in the UK), I’ll pop it in the post to you…

2.) The blog post – it’s always great when bloggers come fresh to my favourite books, so I was delighted to see Thomas at My Porch review EM Delafield’s The Diary of a Provincial Lady; Lisa at BlueStalking Reader write about The Love Child by Edith Olivier, and that Miss Hargreaves has paid a visit to Nicola at Back-to-Books. All are books on my 50 Books list, and though not all the blog posts are from this week, I’ll confess, they’re recent… that’s good enough, isn’t it? OH, and see Jenny’s review of Lucia in London too. So many great posts!

3.) The link – If you’re like me, then the words ‘free’ and ‘book’ in the same sentence won’t go amiss. That’s just what train company First Capital Connect are intending to do, with their own book club – more info here, please excuse the ad agency’s rather bizarre logo.

(by the by, anyone who used to use the ‘Home…’ link in the left-hand column, I’ve now deleted it – but clicking on the picture in the top left-hand corner will take you back to the main page)

Keeping Up Appearances by Rose Macaulay

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It’s always nice to feel oneself in like-minded company, so I was pleased (and not entirely surprised) to see that a lot of you felt the same way that I do about Catcher in the Rye. I rather think today’s book will be more up your street…

Although I read Keeping Up Appearances (1928) by Rose Macaulay back in December (around the time I reviewed Crewe Train) I’ve recently been using it as part of an essay, so hopefully it’ll be fresh in my mind… Those of you familiar with a certain BBC sitcom of the same name may recognise the reference in today’s subject title – but while Hyacinth doesn’t make an appearance, Macaulay’s novel has similar ideas of class and how pretending to be above one’s station will only end in complications…

The central characters of the novel are half-sisters Daisy and Daphne, who are worlds apart in character. Daphne is 25, a cultured intellectual who is never put-off by any situations, and moves through high society with ease and grace. Daisy, 30, is plagued by self-doubt and comes from rather commoner stock. Though she tries to engage in the same social circles as Daphne, and is far more snobbish and class-conscious, she has none of Daphne’s confidence, bravery, and charm. She also lives in constant fear that her secret life as popular novelist Marjorie Wynne will be unearthed by the highbrows and intellectuals amongst whom she moves. But she realises that this isn’t likely, as (when she tests the water) they seem completely unaware of Marjorie Wynne’s existence. Macaulay uses these bits to satirise her own position as popular novelist (though one read by middlebrow and highbrow alike, I believe). In fact, throughout Macaulay’s writings (including the novel of hers I’ve recently started, Staying With Relations) she is very teasing of novelists, and quite amusingly so. This, for instance, is in a collection of her essays called A Casual Commentary:

Novels are among the queerest things in a queer world. Chunks out of the imagined life of a set of imagined persons, set down for others to read. For this is what you have to produce if you are a novelist. You will find it quite easy. Anyone can write novels, and most people, at one time or another, do so. One novel is much like another, so you need not worry very much about what kind of novel to write.[…] The great advantage of writing novels is that some people read novels. They are not, on the whole, very clever people, so yours need not be clever novels, and, indeed, had better not be.

I read the Keeping Up Appearances as part of my research about the development of the concept of ‘middlebrow’, and it is a very interesting look at the interaction of different social strata, especially when it comes to literary circles and their inability to understand each other. It’s also a lot about perspective – for example, Daisy considers her role from two different vantages:

Mother’s clever girl, earning her living by writing for the London papers, writing such bright, clever pieces, that people always liked to read. One of those vulgar little journalists who write popular feminine chit-chat in that kind of paper that caters for mob taste. Oh, what matter? She was either, according to her environment. Go to East Sheen, be Mother’s clever girl, petted and admired; go to the newspaper office, be one of the smart young women journalists, writing good live articles; move along Folyots and highbrows, and be as one not realised by nice highbrows, and only recognised by less nice highbrows as a target for unkindly jests.

Though Keeping Up Appearances isn’t as funny as Crewe Train, nor quite as memorable, it does present a clever idea. Because, dear reader, I haven’t told you the central concept which surprises the reader and twists the interpretation completely, which comes about halfway through the novel. And I’m not going to, you’ll have to read it yourself (carefully avoiding reading the blurb on the inside, if you have my edition – which is that pictured above. I don’t know about you, but it reminded me of Picasso’s The Three Dancers).

Without giving that away, I can say little more – except that Rose Macaulay deserves a wider audience. Capuchin Classics have recently republished one of her novels, I believe, and perhaps other publishers will take up the baton. But there are plenty of secondhand copies available of Keeping Up Appearances and Crewe Train, and I daresay that libraries will have them – for a funny, clever, and well-written view of 1920s class issues and literary society, you can do no better.